


The Theory and Practice of Gamesmanship (Or, If You’re Not One-Up, You’re One-Down)

by mokuyoubi



Series: Back and Forth [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Begging, Dream Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is determined to get under Arthur’s cool exterior. Sequel to on you on me on you, though it isn’t necessary to have read that to read this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Theory and Practice of Gamesmanship (Or, If You’re Not One-Up, You’re One-Down)

Arthur tugs his arms, testing the strength of his restraints. The material is soft and smooth against his skin, which allows his wrist to move comfortably, but it’s wrapped nice and tight, and he can’t move his hands more than a few inches away from the headboard. He knows when struggling is futile and he’d rather save his strength anyway, so he lets his hands fall back in their previous position.

Even if Arthur hadn’t gone into this knowing it was Eames’ dream, as much would have been obvious upon looking. Eames’ fingerprints are all over the room—from the fake bamboo bed posts and Hawaiian print comforter to the hideous orange shag carpet and the kitschy figurines scattered over the dressers. Also, Arthur’s _naked_ , which is as good a clue as any. At least the sheets, in their dreadful shade of green, are satin, and soft under Arthur’s bare skin.

“This doesn’t look like Ariadne’s design,” Arthur calls out. From outside the open French doors he can hear the crash of waves on the beach. The sunlight almost reaches the foot of the bed, where Arthur regards his bare feet with mild boredom. 

Arthur wonders idly if perhaps his projections are wandering the beach in evening gowns and tuxedos. They’re _meant_ to be in at the Metropolitan Opera, but he’s honestly—if grudgingly—impressed by Eames’ little trick. Generally speaking, one can’t choose how any of the dreamers will enter the dream; it could be useful on future jobs, Arthur thinks, Eames’ new talent. 

“If she and Cobb have enough time to kip off for an afternoon quickie, then I think we can indulge, as well,” Eames’ voice answers from the next room. “Ours will take comparatively less time—in the real world, anyway. The PASIV’s only set for five minutes.” 

“How very pragmatic of you,” Arthur mutters dryly. 

Somehow Eames hears him, because he pokes his head into the room and says, “Learned it from you, darling.” 

There are clinking sounds from what Arthur assumes is the bathroom, and water running. He can’t help his curiosity, though he keeps his lips firmly closed. He won’t give Eames the satisfaction. 

Eames comes in, completely nude as well, and half-hard, and Arthur gives him an appraising head to toe. In one hand he carries a length of black cloth and in the other, a slender bottle which he sets in the bedside table. He gets a knee up on the bed and the mattress dips under his weight, making Arthur slide towards him. 

“So,” Eames says, as he settles into place straddling Arthur’s lap, “I was thinking—recalling, actually, a certain incident in a public loo.” 

“Oh?” Arthur asks evenly, though the memory causes his cock to stir in interest. 

“Mmm,” Eames agrees. He draws the cloth between both hands and pulls it taut. “And I realized that I’d never properly… _thanked_ you, for that.” 

“I believe you showed your gratitude appropriately, at the time,” Arthur says. 

Eames’ lips twist up in a devious smile that makes Arthur’s stomach clench in anticipation. “I really don’t think I did,” Eames says. He reaches out towards Arthur’s face with the cloth and Arthur can’t help but lean away. Eames just meets his gaze steadily and reaches out again, more slowly. Arthur makes himself hold still as Eames presses the cloth to his face and wraps it around his head, tying a knot. 

The blindfold lets in only a little light, not nearly enough to make the cloth translucent, so Arthur closes his eyes. Eames’ hands move down Arthur’s chest, barely touching skin. The calluses on Eames’ thumbs brush circles around Arthur’s nipples. It’s a far more delicate touch than Arthur is used to or prefers. He arches his back, pressing for a firmer touch, but Eames’ just draws back. His fingers tickle over Arthur’s ribs, along his sides. 

“So I was wondering just how I might thank you,” Eames says in a conversational tone. 

“Well, tying me up was the obvious answer,” Arthur says. He gives another little tug at the bonds, mostly just to hear the bed frame rattle against the wall. There’s a slightly unsettled feeling somewhere in Arthur’s chest that makes him want to get up and pace around, and no matter how he tries, his shoulders won’t relax. 

“If you could see it from my point of view,” Eames murmurs, and his mouth is close to Arthur’s collarbone, his breath hot on skin, “you’d certainly think so.” He scrapes his teeth over along Arthur’s throat with that same infuriatingly light touch. 

“But that isn’t my way of thanking you,” Eames continues. His thighs slide lower on Arthur’s hips. It makes their cocks meet, oh so briefly, enough to make Arthur’s hips lift for more. Eames settles again just over Arthur’s knees, trapping his legs in place. 

“Oh?” Arthur asks again. He’s found that in situations such as this, where Eames thinks he has the upper hand, it’s easier to let Eames labour under his delusion, at least until Arthur is in a position to prove otherwise. 

“No.” Eames’ voice is nothing but a low rumble in his chest. 

There’s a long silence and Arthur tilts his head up in a curious gesture. No further explanation is forthcoming, it appears, because Eames just leans in close, chest brushing Arthur’s, and lays a kiss over his breastbone. 

The kisses trail from the curve of Arthur’s shoulder, along the dip of his elbow, pay special attention to where wrist meets bond. Eames sucks each finger between his lips, scrapes with his teeth and does that thing with his tongue that makes Arthur’s hips give a small, abortive jerk. 

It’s nice enough, Arthur supposes, but he can say the most dominant thing he’s feeling is annoyance with a hint of boredom—Eames might like being teased, and Arthur’s happy to oblige him, but Arthur himself would rather get straight to the point. He opens his mouth to say as much, and Eames’ lips claim his in a devouring kiss, tongue on tongue and sharp teeth tugging at Arthur’s bottom lip. By the time they part, Arthur is breathless, his complaints all but forgotten. 

Eames’ hands come up to cradle Arthur’s jaw and draw him in for another kiss. This one is softer, more exploratory, enough to coax a small, questioning sound from Arthur’s throat. Eames answers with a sigh and deepens the kiss. He stretches his legs out, the length of him covering Arthur’s body, all that warm skin pressed close. 

Arthur’s never been the sort to want or need someone bigger and stronger than him in bed, or anywhere else. But there’s something oddly comforting about Eames’ body weighing him down into the mattress. It’s hard to draw a breath, and what air he does get is taken away by Eames’ slow, searching kisses, until Arthur’s dizzy and can’t say if it’s because of Eames or the lack of oxygen, or some combination of the two. 

This time when Eames pulls away to trace his tongue down Arthur’s throat and suck bruises on his chest, Arthur’s body thrills to it, arching upwards. He sucks in a lungful of air and lets it out on a hiss when Eames bites down hard on his nipple. 

Eames is kind of a nipple guy—Arthur’s or his own, in male form or dressed up in one of his forgeries, Eames loves to pinch and tug, lick and suck. Before Eames, Arthur never really thought about his own as a source of pleasure, but he has since learned better. Eames keeps switching between little, barely-there swipes with his tongue and rough nips that make Arthur’s cock leak. 

Sometimes when Eames is fucking him, Arthur can come just like from this, without a single touch to his cock. Now, though, Arthur’s cock would like some more up close and personal attention. “Eames,” Arthur says, fighting to sound unaffected and failing miserably. He swallows, lifts his head, and tries again, but his voice still trembles. “We’ve only got an hour.” Actually, probably only forty minutes, at this point. 

“Exactly,” Eames says. His lips brush Arthur’s nipple as he speaks, and Arthur can hear the smirk in his voice. “We have a whole, entire hour.” And he switches to the other side. 

Arthur lets out a frustrated noise. His head drops to the pillow with a thump and Eames chuckles against his skin. “Something the matter, darling?” 

Setting his jaw, Arthur shakes his head and says tightly, “No.” If Eames wants something in particular from Arthur, he’s going to have to say so. 

Eames hums and finally, _finally_ moves on, downwards. The muscles in Arthur’s stomach tighten under Eames’ lips as he mouths kisses under his belly button and over the jut of his hipbones. His hands run up Arthur’s thighs, thumbs digging into flesh just the wrong side of painful and Arthur thinks _higher, higher_ , and if he could just see, maybe or touch…He can’t stop the disappointed groan when Eames’ stops just below Arthur’s balls. Eames chuckles again and shifts back on his heels, nudges Arthur’s thighs apart and settles between them. 

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” Arthur breathes, in the sort of automatic way you do, when someone’s about to blow you. 

Only Eames blows gently over the head of Arthur’s cock and says, “I think you’re finally getting the picture, love, and we’re not nearly to that, yet.” There’s the sound of glass dragging on wood, and a cork being worked loose. 

Arthur isn’t sure how to respond, or even what Eames means by it. Of course, it doesn’t help that Eames’ fingers, slick with lube, are suddenly pressed between Arthur’s thighs. His touch is searching, and he quickly finds what he’s looking for. Two fingers push inside Arthur’s hole, the stretch burning up Arthur’s spine and along his scalp. 

“Eames,” Arthur stutters out, and he doesn’t even know what he would be asking for if he could find the words. 

Eames’ touch is skilful and sure; he knows all Arthur’s buttons, when and how to push them. Arthur writhes under the attention. He wants Eames clever, beautiful mouth on his dick, but Eames just keeps laving attention on Arthur’s stomach and hips, and placing stinging bites on his thighs. 

Arthur doesn’t usually need to ask for this sort of thing; either Eames gives it, or Arthur grabs him by the hair and directs Eames where he wants him. Now, his fist clench around empty air, and he lets out a low groan. Eames answers with a punishing twist of his fingers and a kiss at the crease of Arthur’s thigh and it’s so, so close. Arthur tilts his hips upward and says, breathless, “ _Eames_.” 

And just like that, Eames is going down on him. Arthur’s hips fall back to the bed and he lets out a sigh of appreciation because this, this is what he’s been waiting for since he woke up tied to a bed, and if Eames would pick up the pace just a little, Arthur would be sincerely alright with that. 

Instead, Eames keeps going at the same, infuriatingly slow pace. He licks at Arthur’s cock like it’s a goddamn Popsicle, and making these filthy noises every time he swirls around the head. And his fingers keep coming _so close_ to where Arthur wants them without ever actually touching, and he knows for a _fact_ that Eames is doing this on purpose, because while he is many things, Eames is _not_ incompetent at sex. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so infuriating if, every few moments, Eames didn’t actually hit the right spot, if his lips didn’t close tight and he didn’t just go all the way down on Arthur’s dick. It’s everything Arthur needs to get off, and over too quickly to properly enjoy. He manages to plant his heels on the bed and push up, hips angled just right, but Eames makes a huffing noise and pulls back. 

Arthur swallows hard and says, “Come _on_.” Whines, actually, is more like it. It’s a little bit mortifying, or but if Eames would just move his fucking fingers about a half a centimetre to the right and just stay put, Arthur might be able to get the fuck off. 

Eames pulls off with a slick popping sound and Arthur can just _see_ him licking his lips in an obscene manner. “I’m sorry,” he drawls, utterly unapologetic, “am I doing something wrong?” 

It takes pretty much every ounce of Arthur’s self-control to keep from growling in response. He lets out another shaky breath and fights to keep his hips on the bed. “We’re running out of time,” he manages, in what he believes is a very even tone of voice, given the circumstances. Sweat beads his upper lip and along his hairline, and he thinks longingly of the cool of their bedroom in L.A. 

“Hmm,” Eames says, and licks at the head of Arthur’s cock with the flat of his tongue. His fingers press flat over Arthur’s prostate and he just rubs. 

Arthur arches his neck and bites his tongue against all the sounds that want to escape him. He pants, “Just _fuck_ me already.” 

“Now, I’m not sure that’s the appropriate way to ask for something,” Eames chides. He mouths indolently down the length of Arthur’s cock, lazily sucks Arthur’s balls between his lips. 

Arthur grits his teeth and says, dryly, “I’d like it very much if you’d fuck me, Mister Eames.” 

“Oh, I think you can do better than that,” Eames says, smirk evident in every word he speaks. 

Eames adds a third finger and crooks them deep, and it’s not enough, not at all what Arthur wants now. He wants his legs around Eames’ waist, heels dug into Eames’ hips, teeth set against Eames’ skin, tasting the familiar mixture of sweat and soap sharp on his tongue, and Eames fucking him hard and deep. 

Yet it’s like Eames knows exactly what Arthur wants and is doing his best to do the exact opposite. Arthur’s thighs tremble with how tightly they’re clenched, how desperate and ready for release, and his forehead aches from his furrowed brow, and every touch, no matter how pleasant, seems painful in how much it isn’t what he needs. 

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur says, and it takes him a second to realise it’s him that’s said it, his voice is so jagged, his tone so pleading. 

“Better,” Eames pulls back to say. He goes down on Arthur again, tongue pressed against the vein on Arthur’s cock and he sucks, with just the right amount of pressure, and his fingers keep rubbing in just the right spot. Arthur’s hips work upward to meet everything Eames gives him, and even though he’d like Eames to fuck him, he can get off like this and it will be good, so fucking good, and he isn’t even embarrassed by the small, desperate, half-swallowed sounds he’s making, he’s so fucking close, and—

And Eames stops. Just fucking _stops_ , fingers still, mouth torn away and Arthur’s body keeps moving but Eames’ free hand pins his hips to the mattress in a steely grip. Arthur makes a pained noise, and it all suddenly makes perfect sense, Eames’ _thank you_ , and when they’re out of the dream, Arthur’s going to pay him back for it. 

“I’ve asked,” Arthur says, voice as chilly as he can make it, give the circumstances. “Nicely.” Because that’s as close to begging as Eames is going to get from him, and Eames should know it. 

“Oh yes,” Eames agrees, and pets his thigh. “You’ve come so far my dear. But there’s another twenty minutes on the clock.” 

And then he’s going down on Arthur again, with that same perfect pace, geared just so to make Arthur come, and fast, and he feels his orgasm rising once again, spurred on by Eames’ clever fingers. His hold on Arthur’s hips keeps him pinned, and Arthur can only flex his thighs and pant, “ _Yes, yes, fuck_ ,” and he’s there, he’s _there_ , he can taste it, and then Eames mouth is gone, his fingers gone, and Arthur’s ass clenches around nothing, his cock thrusts upwards into empty air. 

Eames’ dry hand trails up Arthur’s ribs, brushes his nipple. Arthur’s skin tingles under the touch; he feels drawn too tightly, ready to snap. Licking his lips, he says, faintly, “Eames,” his whole body rising to meet Eames’ fingers. 

“Almost,” Eames murmurs, hot breath against Arthur’s jaw. His weight settles between Arthur’s thighs, cock lining up just right with Arthur’s and when Eames kisses him, all of Arthur’s breath leaves him in a rush of _yes yes yes_. 

Everything else—the oppressive heat, the crash of waves, the click of the overhead fan on each turn—is nothing more than a background noise. The blindfold has put Arthur’s other senses into overdrive, but right now he’s only concerned with touch, and the slide of Eames’ cock against his, each slow, toe-curling swivel of Eames’ hips. 

There’s the sound of skin slipping on satin and Eames slides lower. His dick stutters along the crease of Arthur’s thigh, down past his balls, up against his ass. Arthur clenches in anticipation, he can _feel_ Eames inside of him already and he strains upwards, arms automatically going to wrap around Eames’ shoulders and snapping back against the headboard when he reaches the end of the restraints. 

Their five minutes has to be over. Arthur feels as though he’s been on the edge for ages. He knows when he wakes his thighs and shoulders are going to ache from being held so tense for so long, and that he’s going to feel it in every step he takes, and honestly he wouldn’t care if Eames would just _fuck_ him. 

Eames’ knuckles rub Arthur’s inner thigh, then Eames is holding himself, tracing tight circles against Arthur’s hole with the head of his dick. “Eames,” Arthur cries, and he’s never heard himself like this, never know his voice could get quite so high, and it’s as good as begging. 

Apparently, Eames agrees. He pushes forward, just enough to breach Arthur’s opening, and then _stops_ , frozen, hands clamped tight over Arthur’s waist to keep him from moving. “Someone’s wound rather tightly. You need to relax, doll,” Eames says. 

Arthur struggles to swallow, loosens his jaw. He means to say something cutting about just whose fault it is that he’s so wound up, and how Eames could _fix that_ if he’d just _touch_ him where he needs it. He’s shocked when instead his voice comes out laced in desperation and he says, “I can’t, I _can’t_ , Eames.” His fingers curl uselessly in the air. 

Eames pulls away and Arthur’s throat closes around the lost, needy moan that rises from his chest. Eames’ dick nudges against Arthur’s again, and Arthur is going to get off just like this, and he doesn’t fucking care how juvenile it is, because Eames shifts his hips and thrusts against Arthur with just the right angle, and it’s like a dam’s broken in Arthur’s chest, he’s babbling, mewling, really, and it would be horrifying if he could feel anything beyond the need to come, he’s saying, “ _Please, please, please_ Eames, _please_. 

And then suddenly the air Arthur’s dragging in his dry and cool, no longer filled with the salt tang of the ocean, his straining hands are free and he flails around himself, the blindfold is gone and he blinks his eyes open to see the familiar ceiling of the storage facility they’ve been using for home base. 

Beside him he hears the legs of the chaise drag along the ground and Arthur turns his head to see that Eames has already risen, already closed the distance between them. He falls to his knees on the concrete, hands working his zipper open. He’s naked underneath, which isn’t necessarily all that strange, but lets Arthur know right away that Eames was planning on this. 

Arthur almost doesn’t know what to do with his own hands, he’s still half in the dream, right on the edge, but he manages to get his slacks undone and lifts his hips when Eames tugs them down. Eames gets one of Arthur’s legs free before climbing up on the chair between his thighs. The vinyl squeaks in protest under Eames’ knees. 

Eames lays his palm against Arthur’s mouth and Arthur automatically grabs it in his own hand and licks. Eames slicks it over his dick and grabs Arthur by the ankle, slings his leg over Eames’ shoulder and leans in. He hesitates just for a moment, but long enough and Arthur’s digging his nails into Eames’ arms, hard enough to make Eames feel it even though two layers of clothing. 

Dom and Ariadne are going to be back soon, and Saito likes to pop in at the most inconvenient moments, and any of them could walk in on them at any second, which is the only excuse Arthur can give himself for begging. It isn’t even a good one when they both know he’s the stronger one, that he could get Eames on his back and take what he wants. And yet, Arthur says it, lets the pleas bubble over his lips, strained from the arch of his neck, “Please, Eames, fuck me, _please_.” 

Outside the dream Arthur’s body is looser, and Eames is wet with spit and precome, and it’s just enough to ease the way when Eames thrusts forward, goes balls deep. It’s rough and there’s more than a twinge of pain, and it’s fucking _perfect_. Arthur fists a hand in Eames’ hair and jerks him in for a biting kiss. 

It’s over quickly; Arthur’s too far gone to last more than a couple of minutes, hanging onto the edge as long as he can before Eames’ deep, shattering thrusts carry him over the edge. Arthur isn’t a very vocal lover, but he can’t help the cry that his orgasm tears from him. It’s muffled by Eames’ mouth, swallowed and echoed with a low groan as Eames comes, too. Arthur can feel each pulse like a heartbeat. 

In the aftermath, the storage space is too quiet. Arthur’s heavy breaths give too much away to anyone who might overhear. He shoves at Eames’ chest, and Eames grunts and sits back on his heels. When Arthur opens his eyes, it’s to Eames’ bright eyes and roguish smirk. He wiggles his brows as he gets to his feet and fastens his slacks back up. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

Arthur bites back any of a large number of alternatively indignant or furious remarks. He smiles beatifically. Eames should know by now that in a game of one-upmanship Arthur is going to win, but if he hasn’t learned his lesson, Arthur is more than happy to teach him.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, Eames and his all his pet names just got away from me. Also, Arthur may or may not be OOC, I can’t really decide…Thanks to Muse for looking this over for me <3


End file.
